Enid Sinclair and Wednesday Addams lived together, they shared an apartment, therefor, they were Roommates.

Roommates who watched movies together. Roommates who occasionally fell asleep on the same couch in increasingly suspicious configurations. Roommates who absolutely, definitely, had not discussed why Enid got so warm whenever Wednesday said her name in that low, sharp voice.

So, roommates.

Their apartment building had thin walls, a faulty hallway light, a plasma burn on in the hall, and neighbors who believed whispering was accomplished by speaking at full volume with a hand near one's mouth.

Wednesday was carrying a laundry basket up the stairs with the solemnity of a funeral procession. Enid trailed behind her with two grocery bags, a coffee, and a bag of dog treats she swore were "not for her," despite Wednesday having caught her eating one three weeks ago.

They reached the second-floor landing just in time to hear Mrs. Voss from 2C speaking to the man across the hall from her who's name escapes Wednesday.

"Oh, you know," Mrs. Voss said, voice drifting through the cracked-open door. "The apartment with the weird one and the gay one."

Enid stopped walking.

Wednesday stopped walking.

The hallway light buzzed overhead, as if preparing for litigation. the man made a vague noise. "Which ones?"

Mrs. Voss replied, "The rainbow one smiles too much and the creepy short one who frowns too much."

Enid's mouth fell open and Wednesday's eyes narrowed.

The door clicked shut before either of them could turn the hallway into a civic incident.

For a moment, neither spoke. Then they slowly turned toward each other.

Enid said, "Wow, rude."

Wednesday said, "Which part."

"All of it?" Enid gestured at the closed door, grocery bags swinging. "The weird one and the gay one? Like we're a buddy-cop show with terrible branding?"

Wednesday considered this. "It has thematic structure."

"Willa."

"You would watch that show."

"It's offensive!"

Wednesday's gaze sharpened. "Perhaps. Particularly because she failed to specify which is which."

Enid blinked. "That's your problem?"

"It is one of several problems," Wednesday said, shifting the laundry basket against her hip. "But it is the most offensive to me."

Enid squinted at her. "Wait. Do you think you're the gay one or the weird one?"

Wednesday stared at her like the answer was obvious and also possibly classified. "I am clearly the weird one."

Enid scoffed. "Excuse me?"

Wednesday's eyebrows lifted. "You object."

"Yes, I object! You can't just claim 'weird one' like it's a parking space."

"It is already my parking space," Wednesday said.

Enid pointed at her. "You are also gay."

Wednesday's expression didn't change. "*you* are gay. *I* am asexual demi-romantic."

Enid lifted her chin. "Sure, which is queer. Which means we need a ruling."

Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "You want to adjudicate gossip."

"I want justice," Enid said, with great dignity, while holding oat milk and gummy worms. Wednesday stared for one beat too long at the gummy worms.

Enid clutched the bag closer. "Don't bring them into this."

"They are evidence."

"They are snacks."

"They are a rainbow and sugar mockery of real creatures."

Enid gasped. "You take that back."

Wednesday turned and resumed walking toward their apartment. "I will not."

Enid hurried after her. "Okay, no, we're not done. Like, Yes, I agree, I think you're obviously the weird one, but also I resent not being considered weird."

Wednesday reached their door and balanced the laundry basket against her hip while unlocking it. "You're weird to me, wear sweaters with smiling fruit."

"That's fashion."

"You once apologized to a chair."

"Because it looked lonely."

"You once found a chipped porcelain goose at the market and said, 'She's divorced, but healing.'"

Enid followed her inside, kicking the door shut with her heel. "See? That's weird! That proves I can be weird!"

Wednesday set the basket down by the couch. "You are eccentric. I am weird."

Enid dropped the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and frowned. "Babe, your middle-name is ' 'eccentric."

"That's a lie, Enid. My middle-name is 'Friday.'"

Enid snorted while opening the cabnet, "Yeah, I know."

Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "You're proving the point of me clearly being the 'weird one.'"

Enid turned with a jar of peanut butter in one hand. "Okay, but the gay thing. You're gay too."

Wednesday's face remained still. "sure."

"So why am I probably the gay one?"

"Because," Wednesday said, "you radiate."

Enid blinked. "I radiate?"

"Like a lighthouse built by lesbians."

Enid stared at her.

Wednesday looked faintly pleased with the sentence.

Enid's cheeks pinked, which annoyed her because she was not supposed to blush when being insulted by Wednesday. Or complimented. Or whatever that had been. "That is so specific."

"It is also accurate." Wednesday paused before adding, "there is a market for a sapphic romance book that takes place in a lighthouse, they'll slowly loose their minds and devour each other."

Enid leaned against the counter, deciding to ignore that tangent. "Okay, fine, maybe I have a vibe."

"You have several," Wednesday said. "Most of them are loud."

Enid pointed the peanut butter at her. "But you wear black every day, glare at men, own multiple knives, and once told a barista that heterosexuality sounded 'mystically inefficient.'"

Wednesday nodded. "Correct."

"That's gay behavior!"

"That's discernment."

Enid narrowed her eyes. "You kissed a girl in highschool."

Wednesday's gaze flicked up sharply. "I told you that in confidence."

"You told me that while drunk on cough medicine and then threatened the moon."

"The moon knows what she did."

Enid waved both hands. "My point is, you are also have gay vibes."

Wednesday's eyes narrowed in thought. "Perhaps. But between us, your gayness is more… visible."

Enid frowned, though not because she disagreed. "Because of the highlights?"

"Yes."

"Because of my socks?" Enid wiggled her toes that were currently housed in fuzzy rainbow socks.

"Yes."

"Because I cried during that hardware store commercial where the two women renovated a shed together?"

Wednesday's stare sharpened. "You wept for nine minutes."

"It was romantic! They had a dog!"

"It was lumber."

"It was commitment," Enid snapped.

Wednesday regarded her for a moment. "You see? The title fits."

Enid opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked toward the hallway door as if Mrs. Voss might be summoned for testimony. Then she looked back at Wednesday. "Okay. Maybe I'm the gay one."

Wednesday nodded once, satisfied. "Good."

Enid immediately frowned. "But why does that make you happy?"

"It doesn't."

"You look happy."

"I am vindicated."

"That's Addams for happy."

Wednesday's mouth twitched. "No."

Enid abandoned the peanut butter and started unpacking groceries with aggressive energy. "And I don't like that she said it like being gay is *the* identifying thing. Like, yes, I am, but also I have layers."

Wednesday watched her place eggs beside mushrooms, which was wrong, but allowed it for the moment because Enid was making an emotional point.

"You do have layers," Wednesday said.

Enid paused. "Thank you."

"Like an onion left in a glitter drawer."

Enid stared. "aaand there it is."

Wednesday picked up the eggs and moved them to the correct shelf in the refrigerator. "But your objection is noted."

Enid softened a little. "Yeah?"

"Yes," Wednesday said. "Being reduced to one trait is sloppy work."

Enid nodded, pleased. "Exactly."

"But," Wednesday added, closing the refrigerator, "if forced into binary classification, you are the gay one."

Enid groaned. "I hate that you make it sound scientific."

"It is scientific." Wednesday lifted her chin. "A worthy field."

Enid snorted despite herself, then leaned back against the counter again, arms crossed. "Fine. I'm probably the gay one. You're probably the weird one."

Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "Probably?"

Enid's grin crept in. "Well, I'm weird too."

"You are."

"And you're gay too."

"I am."

"So really, it's more of a spectrum."

Wednesday looked at nothing as she thought. "A two-axis model."

Enid blinked. "Oh my god, you're going to chart us."

"I could."

"No charts."

"It would clarify the issue." Wednesday's gaze drifted toward the kitchen drawer where she kept pens, and Enid lunged across the room, catching her wrist before she could begin statistical warfare.

"No," Enid said, laughing. "No queer-weirdness lists right now."

Wednesday looked down at Enid's hand wrapped around her wrist.

Enid realized she was holding Wednesday's wrist at the same time as Wednesday realized she was letting her.

The apartment got very quiet for a second.

Enid released her quickly and cleared her throat. "Sorry."

Wednesday looked away first, which Enid noticed, because Enid noticed too much and understood too little.

"You're forgiven," Wednesday said stiffly.

Enid's smile came back, softer now. "Wow. Generous."

"I'm full of mercy."

"You once threatened a pigeon."

"They're shifty creatures."

"I like pigeons."

"You have bad-tastes."

Enid laughed, bright and relieved. Wednesday moved past her to retrieve the laundry basket, but the corner of her shoulder brushed Enid's arm. Neither commented on it. They folded laundry in the living room after that, which meant Wednesday folded with military precision while Enid made piles that looked like they'd survived weather.

Enid kept glancing toward the wall they shared with Mrs. Voss. "Do you think the other neighbors call us that too?" she asked.

Wednesday smoothed a black shirt with both hands. "Almost certainly."

Enid wrinkled her nose. "The weird one and the gay one."

Wednesday's gaze flicked up. "Would you prefer 'the loud dog and the corpse bride'?"

Enid burst out laughing. "That's worse!"

"I'd argue that it's more descriptive."

Enid threw a sock at her. Wednesday let it hit her ear but she made a sound of disapproval, which only made Enid laugh harder.

Then Enid sobered, just a little. "It's not bad, right?"

Wednesday folded the sock. "What."

"Being the gay one."

Wednesday looked at her then, properly. Her face was calm, but her eyes held Enid with the kind of attention that made the rest of the room feel less important. "No," Wednesday said. "It's not bad."

Enid smiled, smaller than usual. "Good."

Wednesday's fingers paused on the laundry. "Is being the weird one bad."

Enid's face softened. "No."

Wednesday's brows lifted slightly.

Enid leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I mean, obviously people can say it in a mean way. But you're weird in a… you way. Like, beautifully alarming. Like if a haunted music box had a library card."

Wednesday stared at her.

Enid's cheeks went pink again. "That sounded less weird in my head."

"No," Wednesday said after a beat. "It didn't."

Enid laughed nervously. "It didn't." she conceded.

Wednesday looked back down at the laundry, but her movements were slower now.

Enid picked up a sweater and folded it badly. "Anyway. I think it's fine. If you're the weird one, it's because you earned it."

Wednesday's mouth twitched. "Finally. Recognition."

"And if I'm the gay one, I also earned it."

Wednesday nodded gravely. "Through visible effort."

Enid grinned. "Exactly. Through rainbows, highlights, and emotional investment in shed renovation commercials."

"A true legacy."

"A powerful legacy."

They sat there in comfortable quiet for a moment, laundry between them, the apartment warm around them, the hallway gossip turned into something absurd and strangely intimate.

Then Wednesday's eyes slowly drifted toward the door out of their apartment.

Enid pointed at her. "No vengeance."

Wednesday's face went innocent in a way that should have been impossible. "I said nothing."

"You thought it loudly."

"She called me weird."

"That's a compliment for you."

"She also failed to recognize your full complexity."

Enid paused. "Okay, I didn't like that part."

Wednesday nodded. "Precisely."

Enid stared at the wall, then back at Wednesday. "What are we doing?"

"Nothing illegal," Wednesday said.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only promise I'm willing to make."

Enid bit her lip, fighting a smile. "We are not declaring war on an old lady because she called us the weird one and the gay one."

Wednesday folded the last shirt with crisp finality. "Of course not."

Enid relaxed.

Wednesday added, "We'll start with psychological manipulation."

"Willa."

"A tasteful welcome basket."

"That sounds nice."

"With one item slightly wrong."

Enid narrowed her eyes. "Like what."

Wednesday's gaze turned dark and thoughtful. "Moth eggs."

Enid stared at her.

Wednesday continued, perfectly calm, "Procured discreetly. Hidden beneath the decorative tissue paper. Ideally somewhere warm enough to encourage hatching, but not so warm that suspicion becomes immediate."

"Willa."

"It would appear generous," Wednesday said, "while carrying the delayed consequences of arrogance."

Enid's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "You want to put moth eggs in an old lady's welcome basket."

Wednesday lifted her chin. "I want justice."

"You hate moths."

"Yes," Wednesday said. "Which means this would require sacrifice. Vengeance is more meaningful when it costs something."

Enid stared at her for three seconds, then collapsed sideways into laughter on the couch.

Wednesday watched her, lips almost smiling.

Low Tide.
A Poem by Wednesday Addams.
Subject: Enid Sinclair

You arrived like weather with teeth
a pink and blue cyclone in a sweater
baring your smile as if the universe hasn't repeatedly proven itself unworthy
My room stays dark, because darkness is honest.

It offers no attempt to heal
It stays beside you, and waits.
And then you, with your bright claws, and wolf-warm hands
pull up the blinds.

A lesser woman would call it morning
I call it an invasion, A gorgeous one
The sort that leaves fingerprints, on the coffin lid.

My name is on your tongue, as if it's not an autopsy report
but a wish, a secret carried
keeping it under your tongue, for good luck.

Enid.

you are so full of softness and pale colors
until the moment someone touches what you love.

And then the moon remembers, why wolves were created.

I’ve seen you laughing in the kitchen, barefoot in the ruin of breakfast
and felt something very old inside of me, stirring in its grave.

Do not misunderstand me.

I'm still the girl who uses the alphabet as a knife, still the dark storm at the end of the hall.

But for you, I would learn the geography of gentleness
I would chart the tides of your breathing
I would haunt every shoreline, that dared return you broken.

When the city is brutal, I ask you to come home
Not because I'm safe, or ever have been.

I'm here because I am reliable
because my devotion is a heavy, locked door
a sharpened key, a lighthouse built from bone, and stubbornness.

Come home, because the night is vast, and you're too bright to wander it alone.

(Notes: inspired by "mariners apartment complex" by lana del rey. this was incredibly hard for me to focus on writing.)